


4 times Crowley's nightmares came true (and 1 time they didn't)

by mymetaphorwasdrawnfrombees



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Prophetic Dreams, but better safe than sorry, i don't even know if its enough to merit the teen warning, passing reference to sex in the very last chapter, the first four chapters are very much G rated!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-29 11:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20435015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mymetaphorwasdrawnfrombees/pseuds/mymetaphorwasdrawnfrombees
Summary: In this barely-AU Good Omens universe, Crowley's dreams are prophetic. He gets omens in his dreams of disaster to come. So what is one to do when that disaster spells out horrible news for you, and worse, for the one you love?AKA 4 times Crowley's nightmares came true, and 1 time when all the dreams he barely could bring himself to dream came true.





	1. the fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fine folks! This is only the second fanfic I've ever written, and it's the first multichapter fic I've ever written, so I hope it flows nicely. The whole thing is written up, i'm just editing the last chapter now. I'll be posting a chapter a night for the next five days, if all goes according to plan! I would love your feedback of what you liked and what you think worked well. <3 I hope you enjoy!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was doing what he loved best: flying, coasting through the air, the wind filtering between his feathers. He opened his eyes and laughed as the brilliant streaks of nearby stars passed above, and the ground disappeared beneath him. This was his favorite recurring dream. When he was flying, he could leave his doubts far behind and his worries with them. His wings asked nothing of him. They supported him and gave him freedom. Back on the ground, or back at the head office, the ever-shrinking walls of absolutes and ultimatums and expectations of blind faith trapped Crowley and smothered him. Crowley had never been good at trusting, and anyone who asked blind faith of him raised his defenses right away. Why, he wasn't sure. It wasn't what a good angel would do, that much was certain. Crowley knew he was supposed to be obedient, but he couldn't help but wonder..."

Angels don't dream often, mostly because they don't sleep often, but when they do, their dreams are often prophetic. A brief glimpse of a successful miracle, the seed of an idea for a new galaxy, a sign of good tidings to come. Never enough information to change the outcome, but an encouragement and a reminder of the beauty of being an angel. A spark of joy, a dash of hope, to get them through the drudgery and the more tedious aspects of their work. The dreams aren't always prophetic, but when they are, they are reassuring and pleasant.

Crowley didn’t dream at a higher frequency than the other angels, but he loved sleep, so he dreamed more than most. And he enjoyed it very much- those rare dreams became lifelines as he sank deeper and deeper into the mire of doubt, uncertain of the true goodness of the path prescribed to him.

One night, after a long day of crafting galaxies and cleaning up cosmic messes, Crowley gave in to sleep in a haze, frustrated by yet another run around and non-answer to a simple question. _ What was so hard _ , he thought, _ about giving some insight into the so-called _ _ ineffable _ _ plan _ ? _ What was the point of putting these new creatures, these humans, into a world with the key to their downfall right there? _ _ That seems like cruelty. And aren't we supposed to be beacons of compassion and justice and fairness? _His frustration faded as he drifted into the sweet release of slumber and into the arms of a waiting dream.

He was doing what he loved best: flying, coasting through the air, the wind filtering between his feathers. He opened his eyes and laughed as the brilliant streaks of nearby stars passed above, and the ground disappeared beneath him. This was his favorite recurring dream. When he was flying, he could leave his doubts far behind and his worries with them. His wings asked nothing of him. They supported him and gave him freedom. Back on the ground, or back at the head office, the ever-shrinking walls of absolutes and ultimatums and expectations of blind faith trapped Crowley and smothered him. Crowley had never been good at trusting, and anyone who asked blind faith of him raised his defenses right away. Why, he wasn't sure. It wasn't what a good angel would do, that much was certain. Crowley knew he was supposed to be obedient, but he couldn't help but wonder...

Suddenly, Crowley tumbled from the sky, careening back to the ground with nothing to catch him. He struggled to extend his wings, and something acrid consumed his senses, filled his nose and made his eyes water and blurred the stars flying past. It was as if he were a meteor re-entering the atmosphere as it plunged to a planet's surface. He saw his previously burnished copper feathers, now shifting. Darkening, black as the empty void between stars, and many (too many, too many to continue to fly, _too many_) drifting as ash in the air above him as he scrambled to gain purchase with the wind under his wings. As he twisted in desperation, now facing the ground, he saw that he was no longer plummeting towards any planet or nebula or anything resembling the world he left behind. He stared down into a burning pit of boiling sulfurous fire, reeking of death and destruction. Blind panic encased him and he dropped like a stone. Feathers continued to peel off his wings, like water droplets rolling down his forearms while he lovingly crafted another comet, another star. They disappeared into the void behind- above- around him as the fire expanded, roiling beneath him as if beckoning him, waiting to digest him.

Worse than falling, worse than being out of control, worse even than the realization that the fire below might destroy him, was the burning in his veins. Crowley felt as if the blood in his body had somehow turned to fire. He just knew he was boiling from the inside out and bound to explode, as volatile as a newly formed supernova. 

Something buried deep within him, something unshakable, began to move. The Grace he had known since his creation. The peace and comfort and love of his creator. The sense of belonging. He knew it, like he knew his love for the worlds he helped to create- intimately, without words or explanation, intrinsic. That unwavering sense displaced, jolted, and violently tore away, shattering into a million pieces. He knew he had left it behind him by the void it left in its wake, emptier than the vacuum of space. Cold. He clutched his chest, gasping, searching for the wound he was certain would be there, and an unholy scream wrenched from his throat. His eyes welled with tears that streamed down his face.

The burning lake of fire approached with blinding speed. He braced for impact, already feeling the stinging on his skin, and awoke with a start. He sat up in a panic, wings already extended and flapping frantically. As he controlled his breathing, he scrutinized them, checking for damage, for any sign of the copper hue fading to black that he saw in his dream. Even when satisfied that they were still metallic and shining, his heart still raced. Crowley found himself unable to fall back to sleep, too distressed and too afraid of what dreams could await him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Only a short time after that dream, in only a matter of days, Crowley Fell. Alone and in agony, he lost everything he knew.


	2. the apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He had become accustomed to the stagnant, mind-numbing, and frustrating way business was carried out in heaven. He had pushed back and questioned why things couldn’t change. That obviously didn’t end well for him. But he saw in the best of humanity that constant curiosity, the drive to make things better. God’s chosen, Her favorites, and they rarely remained content with the status quo. And so, despite himself, Crowley liked these creatures.
> 
> Earth became his home, and he made his place among humanity."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 2 for your enjoyment dear friends! This is un-beta-d, but I did try to edit it pretty thoroughly. I'd love to know if there's something particular you enjoy! <3 <3 <3 As always, thank you for reading:)

After his fall, Crowley’s infrequent dreams turned to terrible nightmares more often than not. Just one unfortunate side effect among many others. Hell sent him to the garden, to the earth, to tempt and wreak havoc and cause chaos. He  went with every intention of pouring all his bitterness, all his rage, all his pain into the work assigned to him. But then he met humanity. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to hate them. They were curious, fascinating creatures. God loved them most of all her creations, and despite himself,  Crowley began to understand why. 

When She cast Eve and Adam out of the garden, he felt a twinge of regret, buried deep inside, their loss and isolation striking a resonating chord with the seed of hope in the most secret, shadowed place in his heart. Crowley pretended to be all rage and hate, the perfect demon, but he couldn’t smother the part of him that hoped for redemption someday, the part that wished for a future returned to the receiving end of the shining love, grace, and light of God. That hope that maybe he was still redeemable, despite all knowledge and judgment, refused to die. That hope that perhaps there was still some angelic essence left deep down, was as stubborn as Crowley himself. He buried it, sure, but buried seeds grow and flower someday. He resisted and hated the painful optimism. 

Although it was initially unwilling, Crowley quite liked the earth, and humanity with it. It was a begrudging sort of love. But he loved humanity for their constant ability to surprise. Their desire to go ever faster, farther, higher. They didn’t have wings, so they made wheels. He loved their stories, always searching for a hero in themselves, always desperate for redemption and happy endings. He loved their capacity for humor. Their ability to always find hope, even in the darkest moments. Their resilience and capacity for growth. Their lives are so short, and yet Crowley had seen in them more monumental works than accomplished by many of the angels in heaven or the demons below, when accounting for the fact that humanity has no actual magic. But if you don’t know for sure if anything comes after, he supposed, you are more compelled to make the most of the life you have. He had become accustomed to the stagnant, mind-numbing, and frustrating way business was carried out in heaven. He had pushed back and questioned why things couldn’t change. That obviously didn’t end well for him. But he saw in the best of humanity that constant curiosity, the drive to make things better. God’s chosen, Her favorites, and they rarely remained content with the status quo. And so, despite himself, Crowley liked these creatures.

Earth became his  home , and he made his place among  humanity . 

Crowley also met an  angel .  But he tried not to dwell on that for too long. 

Even when avoiding his feelings, Crowley knew he was becoming too comfortable, too at home. If anyone from the home office saw his day-to-day routine, they would say he was not demonic enough, and too friendly with a certain angel. Crowley knew it would be a problem someday. The solution (or _a_ solution, anyway) came to him one day, but it was several weeks before he figured out how to propose that plan to Aziraphale, whose assistance would be required.

\------------------------------------------------------------

After a nasty fight with Aziraphale about some holy water, Crowley went home and slept for months. He wasn’t asking for anything for nefarious purposes, really! Crowley just knew that this closeness to this angel meant hell was bound to come calling sooner or later. He wanted to be prepared. Crowley didn’t understand why Aziraphale was being so difficult about it all, honestly! He knew it could destroy him, that was the _point. _Safety in destruction. He couldn’t expect Aziraphale to always be around, to keep him safe, and he wouldn’t want to endanger the angel like that anyway. This was his solution: efficient, dangerous, but highly likely to succeed. And this stubborn bastard refused to help! The nerve of him. Crowley would do anything for that silly angel. And he can’t reciprocate? Crowley’s stomach plunged and he rolled over, returning to the haze of dreamless sleep.

  
Except that this time, it wasn’t  dreamless . 

The sky was a strange fiery red. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings in a moment, bafflement increasing with each person his eyes passed over. They appeared to be in some sort of military installation. Crowley saw Aziraphale at his side, where he always seemed to end up, wings out, and...flaming sword in hand? Crowley shook his head and continued. There was an odd assortment of strange adults gathered, none of whom looked as if they knew what they were doing there, and one of whom was holding what appeared to be a rejected design for a large and unwieldy musical instrument. There was also, for some inexplicable reason, a group of children with bikes dropped nearby on the ground, none of whom appeared very surprised by their surroundings. And standing in the middle of them all was Beelzebub and Gabriel, who both looked displeased. They took in the menagerie of mismatched people with glowering faces, and promptly popped out of existence and back to their respective offices, like soap bubbles in the bath.  


All of a sudden, Crowley heard a rumbling. Well, perhaps heard is not the correct word. He felt it deep in his chest, the vibrating so strong it was as if his bones were rattling, trying to break free of his body. It was a disquieting sensation, and not one he was eager to continue to experience. The concrete beneath his feet began to heave and crumble. He fell to his knees as only a few yards away, erupting from the asphalt with a roar, came an entity he  knew too  well . Too close for comfort, too angry to fathom, too  strong to overpower. Dread unfurled in Crowley’s  chest , pressing into his ribs, as if they would splinter and burst open. 

Crowley jolted up from the  bed , soaked in a cold sweat,  chest heaving.

“The apocalypse. The antichrist. It’s happening.”  _ Shit. I need to tell Aziraphale. _

Crowley was already out of  bed , sliding into his jacket, when he remembered.  _ Oh. We’re not speaking.  _ He froze, arms suspended at an awkward angle half-in his sleeves, deliberating how badly he wanted to share his  dream with someone, and how angry he still was with  the angel .

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Decades passed, and Crowley tried to forget the ominous  dream . He slept on and off for a few years, saved his  angel from certain discorporation, and  the angel gave him a thermos filled with holy water. They continued to tiptoe around one another, engaged in a precarious high-wire act with a definite, albeit unknown, expiration date. 

Crowley didn’t tell Aziraphale of his dream, except to discuss with him that Armageddon was a possibility at all. How near a possibility, exactly, he never could say. The nightmare lingered, wisps of smoke clouding his mind at the most inopportune moments. On those nights when insomnia and worry plagued him, Crowley attempted to smother the anxiety dredging in him by driving down back roads at speeds that shouldn’t be possible for a car as old as the Bentley. He didn’t seem to notice. He drowned out his thoughts by blasting Queen loud enough for the next village over to hear. 

At that moment, he  heard Freddie Mercury’s dulcet tones beckon through the radio- “Crowley? The demon jolted, and managed not to jump out of his own skin.

“Erm, yeah, who is it?” 

“It’s  Dagon , Lord of the Files. You’re to meet Ligur and Hastur in the graveyard outside Tadfield Manor, to the south of Oxford, two nights from now.”

“Ah. Pleasure as always  Dagon . Got a special assignment for me, then? What will it be this time, eh? Tempting a nun to abandon her convent for the pleasures of the world?  Taking over the mafia?  Seducing a politician into committing fraud?” Crowley’s superiors certainly lacked finesse, and he attempted to not sound too put out at the prospect, or too terrified about what it might be.

“You’ll receive your orders when you arrive, Crowley. Be there by midnight. They’ll be waiting.” 

“All right then. I’ll be there,” he replied. Once the music resumed and he was certain no one was listening, he let out a deep exhale. “Let’s hope to heaven that they aren’t ready yet.” 

Of course, when he turned up that night and Ligur offered up  the basket , he  knew instantly what was  inside . His stomach squirmed and if he had been even the slightest bit more human, he would have vomited on the spot. However, he kept it together and  miracle d the sheer panic off his face and the tremor out of his voice. Crowley accepted  the basket and climbed into the Bentley and somehow managed to  go through the motions and pretend to be normal. It wasn’t until he was in the privacy of his car that he allowed himself to bang the steering wheel and let loose the horrified feelings clamoring to escape- the fruits of decades of anxiety percolating  inside , planted by a dream. Head office interrupted his breakdown, dumping the instructions directly into  his mind . All the while,  his mind reeled a ticker tape of a single thought on repeat:  _ I have to call  _ _ Aziraphale _ _ . _

After (distractedly) delivering the baby,  Crowley rushed to the nearest pay phone. He dialed the number he  knew by  heart, and the angel picked up after four rings.  Crowley suppressed a flutter of his  heart and blurted “ Aziraphale , it’s me. We need to talk.” 

“ Yes , I rather think we do. I assume this is about-” 

“Armageddon,  yes .”  Crowley hung up, and clambered back into the Bentley. He may have been without a plan, but he had an ally. Someone else he could rely on. He didn’t have to face it alone.


	3. the discorporation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Throughout the millennia, he and this angel revolved around each other as planets in orbit. Crowley, despite his better instincts, kept close. Something about being the only two ethereal, occult, or otherwise otherworldly beings on the planet the majority of the time meant that he had a keen sense for where the angel was. It manifested as a pulling sensation, which grew stronger as he got closer. His heart was a compass, following the tug in his gut, and Aziraphale, his true north."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go dear friends! Chapter 3 is done, still unbeta-d, but thoroughly and mercilessly edited. I would LOVE to hear what you like about it! Two more chapters to go! Now buckle up folks. All aboard the angst-train to feels-town. Last stop is a happy ending, but we'll be making several detours through tragedy first!

Despite himself, Crowley liked the angel from the moment they met in the garden. He was somewhat daft, but compassionate and kind. His first act upon executing his duties to guard the eastern gate was to give away his regulation issue flaming heavenly sword. Crowley, from that moment, could not stop his fascination and interest from growing. As a demon, he knew, his job was to ferment discord and tempt and give in to temptation. So he did. He didn’t fight, didn’t resist. And it sure as Hell fermented endless discord in Crowley’s own heart, unceasingly warring with his reason and sense. 

He met the angel throughout millennia, he convinced him to partake in a curious arrangement. It was convenient, he told himself, and it was useful, so they didn’t have to waste time. Perhaps it was a bit slothful of Crowley. So what if it allowed him more contact with this curious angel. And if it allowed him the first chance he had in years to perform miracles, well, surely he couldn’t refuse to take part in the deal he himself proposed...and if he never gave Aziraphale temptations that would upset him to complete, well, it was just to make sure their deal could continue. Certainly not because he wanted a chance to perform miracles again.

He knew, deep down, from the first time he spoke with the angel. _["I gave it away!"] _He was attached, in a way that demons are not supposed to become attached to things. A dangerous thing for him to admit, so he never did (at least not aloud).

Crowley didn’t lie often, despite the fact that he was very accomplished at it, when he wanted to be. He didn’t much have the stomach for deceiving someone. His demonic activity involved more transparent temptations, and they always worked. Crowley knew all about wanting what you cannot have. 

Well, he never lied much to anyone except himself. And he was exceptionally good at it. 

Throughout the millennia, he and this angel revolved around each other as planets in orbit. Crowley, despite his better instincts, kept close. Something about being the only two ethereal, occult, or otherwise otherworldly beings on the planet the majority of the time meant that he had a keen sense for where the angel was. It manifested as a pulling sensation, which grew stronger as he got closer. His heart was a compass, following the tug in his gut, and Aziraphale, his true north. 

\-----------------------------------------------

It was an unassuming day, just one in a long string of endless unassuming days. He and Aziraphale had only a few weeks prior moved on from their posts at the Dowling home. Crowley had spent the morning tempting a man to make a substantial impulse purchase, to give in to his covetous desires. On the surface, sure, it didn’t _ seem _like much. But it was guaranteed to cause some discord and strife in his relationship once his partner found out about the unnecessary, indulgent expense. Not to mention, he purchased it from a company whose bankrupt ethics and blatant use of slave labor substantially increased the overall evil in the world, and now he was complicit! Even if the individual weight of moral responsibility that fell to him was miniscule, the guilt would eat away at him. Guilt and shame were the easiest ways to get a demonic foot in the door for other future temptations. Crowley was satisfied in demonic work well done. 

He may have been a bit out of practice after years of around-the-clock care for young Warlock, but easing back into the routine of temptations was like easing back into his snakeskin shoes. If he must wear shoes to pass unnoticed in society, he ought to do it with style. He had a few ideas percolating for a great temptation of thousands of people at once. But caring for a child without pause for years would instill enough bone-deep exhaustion in anyone (even an occult being) that it could take months to recover and be well-rested again. He collapsed into his bed, the covers crumpling under him as he plummeted into sleep.

He stood in a gray room. It lacked the substance of real life, in the strange way dreams often do. It felt like a specific place, but if one were to ask him where he was, Crowley wouldn’t be able to say for sure. And he didn’t know why he was there. He was peaceful, if a little confused. Time was suspended in this in-between place, so Crowley had no idea how much time had passed. Experimentally, he flexed out his wings. They expanded to fill the space behind him, and he rolled out his shoulders. Well, everything seemed to be in working order. He thought to himself- where is the Bentley? And immediately he found that he was sitting inside it. He ran his hands over the steering wheel with a tender, glancing touch. He turned the keys in the ignition and the engine growled to life. _ May as well go for a drive. _He progressed forward and found that the gray haze around him turned to familiar buildings. He was driving through a colorless London, leaving his flat and headed in a direction that was automatic, unconscious. Aziraphale’s shop, he realized. He felt the constant sensation in his chest, the internal pull of Aziraphale’s presence on this earthly plane. 

Without warning, Crowley felt as if a black hole opened in his chest and consumed him, tearing away essential pieces of his soul. It wasn’t the burning of the Fall, or the terror of Armageddon...no, this was something worse. It was the light in Crowley being snuffed out, swallowed by darkness. Aziraphale. He reached out with his senses, stretching his mental faculties to search for him. Panic flared as he realized he couldn’t locate him, couldn’t get a signal. The angel’s guiding presence had vanished completely. His already high speed increased alarmingly as he pushed the Bentley faster, faster still. 

Crowley had been distanced from Aziraphale before- when the angel ran off, galavanting across the world to do a miracle without warning, or to witness some astronomical event. But he had still sensed him, faint, almost imperceptible, but still there. This was different. The angel was just...gone. Crowley drove in a frenzied, blind panic, on autopilot. 

As he approached the street where the familiar shop resided, Crowley saw thick smoke rising into the sky. As he turned the corner at a reckless speed, flames larger than the building itself were curling around the doorframe and licking the roof. Crowley felt his heart collapse at the same time as one of the support beams did, a hole opening up in the roof of the shop and allowing more smoke to escape in its frantic dance toward the sky. 

_ The angel can’t be de- no. Mustn’t even think it. Can’t be possible. NO. _

But as he haphazardly parked the Bentley, Crowley knew. Deep down. The seed of hope planted within him in the garden so many millennia ago was withering, wasting away, gone, along with the being who planted and nurtured it.

Before he could reach the front door, Crowley came to in his bed, arm outstretched to push the door open. Tears covered his face, their salt coating his tongue and pairing well with the flavor of bitterness in his heart.

He sat up and the blood rushed from his head as he grabbed his mobile from where he had previously flung it on his bedside table. Crowley was halfway through dialing when he remembered it was the middle of the night. He reached out with his mind, tentative and terrified, for the sense of Aziraphale. Instantaneously, he felt a flood of warmth and comfort coming from the direction of the bookshop in SoHo. Crowley let out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding, and all the muscles in his body went slack at once. He fell back onto the pillows and curled into himself in a puddle of snakelike-limbs, eyes closed. Crowley tried to breathe again, the tension uncoiling as he focused on that spark of warm hope nestled in his heart. He resisted the urge to call Aziraphale, instead reveling in the warm feeling of his presence, so familiar and still uncomfortably far away. 

_ It was just a dream, _ Crowley reassured himself. _ My dreams don’t always come true. Aziraphale would think it silly, and if I told him he’d just look at me with those sad, pitying eyes, and offer me tea, and pat my arm, and...no. I can’t tell him. _He tried to fall back asleep, and this time was successful, returning to a dreamless landscape of warm, quiet nothingness.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

“SOMEBODY KILLED MY BEST FRIEND!” 

The tenuous connection which tethered him to the light and reminded him of who he used to be so long ago had snapped, severed so suddenly, it was unmistakable. Crowley, in utter despair, stumbled through the bookshop, the angel nowhere to be found. And his last words...his last words to him were “I’m going home angel. I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving. And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!”

_ I won’t even think about you. _That would have to be the biggest lie Crowley had ever told, and would ever tell. He hardly thought of anything else, these days. And now he would never be able to forget- the horrible lies, and worse, the look on Aziraphale’s face. Absolutely devastated, torn between his allegiance to heaven and his loyalty to Crowley.

But could Crowley blame him? Would he not take the first chance to be embraced with open arms, and in God’s good graces again? To feel her Grace, just one more time? How could he begrudge Aziraphale that hope, that last shred of faith that maybe it wasn’t all wrong? That maybe God is who she was supposed to be- loving, and kind, and just? And that heaven could be the same? He couldn’t. He never wanted to Fall, and more than anything he wanted to save Aziraphale the same fate. But his traitorous heart, and even more traitorous mouth, lashed out. And now...now Aziraphale was dead. 

Alcohol. Crowley needed copious amounts of alcohol to swim in, sink in, drown in. He couldn’t bear to face the end of the world alone. There was no point trying to save it, not anymore. Not with Aziraphale gone. 


	4. the trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Crowley pried open his eyes and was abruptly greeted by several unwelcome sights. First, he was back in heaven, surrounded by all the glass and metal and open empty space, sterile and cold and clinical. Second, he saw a row of archangels, faces impassive and almost bored. They were vaguely familiar to Crowley, due to his previous residence in heaven (although he was not on a first name basis with any of them back then), and more recently because of a few near-misses on earth when they dropped in on Aziraphale. And third, he could see in a reflection in the glass- Aziraphale. The angel stood in a column of flame, thrashing, wings out, and screaming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is going up much later than intended! We're almost there friends. One chapter left! It will be posted tomorrow.
> 
> This chapter features bed sharing, angst, and some softness. Let me know what you like! <3 <3 <3 Thank you for reading!

After riding the bus back to not-Oxford, Aziraphale returned with Crowley to his flat. They lingered close together, hands  barely  touching in a plausibly-deniable in-between of shared personal space, as they walked up the steps, made their way into the lift, and through the front door. Crowley hesitated just inside the entryway, and glanced back at Aziraphale. 

The angel resisted the urge to reach up and brush off an errant smudge of soot from the demon’s face. 

Crowley swayed where he stood. “I know you don’t need sleep, angel, but after the day I’ve had...it’s just not an option. If I don’t sleep, I don’t know that I’ll make it to tomorrow.”

“ Of course, my dear boy, and after my discorporation and the stress of the whole day, I think a smidge of sleep would be  incredibly  refreshing for me as well . If that’s  all right, of course .”

“In that case,” Crowley began, looking as though he might collapse on the spot, “I only have the one bed. I can miracle a sofa for me in the living room, or even miracle up another bed I suppose, although where I would put it, I’m not sure-”

“Oh my dear boy!” Aziraphale cut in. “You’re too exhausted after the day we’ve had. You need to sleep in your own bed! And you shouldn’t waste your energy on any frivolous miracles. Would you…” he hesitated, and raked his eyes over Crowley’s face, drooping with exhaustion. “Would you  be opposed to sharing your bed? I would hate to intrude, but I prefer to keep you close by,  in the event that heaven or hell comes calling early.”

Crowley’s heart jumped, and he pushed down the swell of feelings brought about by this question. He struggled to keep his voice nonchalant as he replied, “Sure, it’s more than big enough for both of us.” 

As they settled into the sheets, both now miracled into some comfortable pajamas, and carefully , ever-so- carefully  not-touching but each hyper aware of the other, laying mere inches away in the darkness, Crowley mumbled: “We’re gonna hafta come up with a plan in the morning, angel.” Aziraphale hummed in affirmation.  Without much time or effort, they both pitched into a deep sleep. 

Crowley jolted awake with a start, still in darkness. The first thing he noticed was the smell- burning. But not the decay of a normal human fire, or even a  slightly  ethereal fire as the one from the bookshop the previous day. No, this was the flame of hellfire, first burned into his memory from his unforgettable fall from heaven. He could taste the acrid smoke in his throat.

He heard familiar screams. His chest tightened in panic. Those screams... surely  he was imagining things. They sounded angry, and he had heard them only a few times before. In one  particularly  memorable instance, Crowley  was nearly discorporated by an errant angel who took it upon themselves to get rid of him. It wasn’t often that Aziraphale went into full avenging angel mode. But when he did...it was a fearsome thing to behold, awe-inspiring and terror inducing. That vigilante angel  was dispatched back to heaven, bodiless, with precision and without hesitation. Crowley had  secretly  shuddered, all at once impressed by Aziraphale’s steely resolve and capacity for violence; overwhelmed  by the fact that the angel did it in Crowley’s defense; and curious about if he had fought in this way in the war, before. If he had dispatched demons with such ruthless efficiency and conviction. The screams of judgment doled out as Aziraphale discorporated Crowley’s would-be-assassin didn’t fade in his memory, even though that day was centuries behind them. And now they were resonating in his ears.

Crowley pried open his eyes and  was abruptly greeted by several unwelcome sights. First, he was back in heaven, surrounded by all the glass and metal and open  empty  space, sterile and cold and clinical. Second, he saw a row of archangels, faces impassive and almost bored. They were  vaguely  familiar to Crowley,  due to his previous residence in heaven (although he was not on a first name basis with any of them back then), and more  recently because of a few near-misses on earth when they dropped in on Aziraphale. And third , he could see in a reflection in the glass- Aziraphale. The angel stood in a column of flame, thrashing, wings out, and screaming. 

Crowley realized  belatedly  that the smell of hellfire was coming from the column of flame. That Aziraphale was standing in. His mind couldn’t catch up to his senses, as if  he was made of molasses- trembling and  treacherously  slow, so slow, too slow to save him. He blinked, shook his head. Looked back again. As he  finally  rose to shout, to make for the angel, to  try to  free him before it was too late, he felt the iron vise of hands on his arms, his neck, his legs. He heard the overlap of hissing voices of his fellow demons as they dragged him downstairs.

Just before he  was dragged from the room completely , Aziraphale glanced in Crowley’s direction, agony written in his features. He surged with energy, reaching out, breaking one arm free from the demons dragging him back to hell. He strained and struggled, until  he was bashed at the base of his skull. The world collapsed into darkness and he screamed as he woke, the angel’s name choked in the back of his throat. 

“AZIRAPHALE--” The angel jolted up from his own stupor and for a moment the glow around him was reminiscent of that same avenging angel who used to wield a flaming sword.

“Crowley?” Alarmed, loud, insistent, followed by a quieter “My dear, oh, Crowley...” his hand rubbed soothing strokes up and down Crowley’s arm, as the demon drank in the sight of Aziraphale’s face, desperation pouring out of every expression. Aziraphale, here and whole and not consumed by the hellfire. Crowley choked back a sob, and reached out a hand to caress his face, as if he  was afraid he would burn at the touch, but needed to confirm that he was  actually  there. As Crowley’s fingers brushed his cheekbone, Aziraphale placed his hand over Crowley’s sprawled fingers, pressing them  fully  against his soft skin. “I’m here, we’re safe. It’s over my dear.” Crowley averted his eyes from the electric gaze of the angel. Pressed his palms into his eyes. Shook his head and pulled himself back together, put the mask back on. 

“Sorry I woke you, angel.” Crowley’s cheeks reddened as he realized his mistake, his overshare, and just how close they were on the bed. Crowley pried himself away from the comforting touch and turned to face the wall, feet on the floor. “You should go back to sleep, get some rest, before the morning.” His voice was a croaking, broken imitation of normal. “Who knows what they’ll have in store for us.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice was as soft as a whisper this time, quiet and resigned and not yet accepting the sudden distance between them. “Crowley, I’m not sleeping as long as you’re awake. I’m not leaving you alone. Do you have nightmares often?” 

Crowley’s silence was his answer. 

“My dear. That  simply  won’t do. What were you dreaming of? Or, well, that was a rather intrusive question. Perhaps we should have some tea.” Aziraphale  gracefully  slid to the floor and miracled a teacup in each hand, steaming chamomile wafting through the room. He walked around the bed and sat next to Crowley,  firmly  placing a cup in one hand, and keeping a safe distance between the two of them. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Angel, my nightmares, they always come true. Always. Six thousand years worth and I know this one will too.” Aziraphale cocked his head and fixed Crowley with a curious stare. 

“Always?” He paused. Crowley nodded, one short, curt snap of the head. “Ah, well, that must be a demonic trait, I suppose? No matter, that’s neither here nor there. What was the nightmare about?” Crowley hesitated. 

“You.”

“...Oh.” Aziraphale pulled back slightly , anxiety creased in the weathered lines of his face. “Was I...harming you, somehow? Because you know I could never-” 

“No, no, no, nothing like that, angel. I know you wouldn’t.” Aziraphale relaxed back into his previous spot, reassured, leaning toward Crowley. “This is about heaven, and hell. They came for us. We were...burning. It wasn’t like the bookshop fire, angel, this was the real deal. Hellfire.” Crowley’s voice was flat.

Aziraphale considered this, rolling it around in his mind as if he was tasting a fine wine, teasing apart all the intricacies of it. “You said  _ ‘we’ _ were burning, dear boy, but you can’t burn in hellfire. You’re a demon! Why would heaven and hell try to burn us both?” Crowley set the teacup on the nightstand, clambered to his feet, and began pacing, slinking hips working double-time to propel his body and match the pace of his brain. “And all that’s  to say nothing of this last prophecy, we still need to sort that out, and what it means for tomorrow. ‘Choose your faces wisely ,’  indeed,  I don’t suppose she could have been more specific…Well, at least now that we’re both awake, we might as well plan.”

“We. Both. Ngk. Wait!” Crowley’s spine straightened and he looked at Aziraphale, frenzied. “WE. I wasn’t...they weren’t...angel, you’re onto something! You’re a genius!” He came to a skidding stop in front of Aziraphale, and as soon as he felt that electric spark in his belly, he resumed his pacing, focusing on the task at hand. If they could survive tomorrow, Crowley could deal with  _ that  _ feeling after. For now, he and the angel had work to do. Crowley had a plan.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

  
When Crowley’s nightmare  was fully realized , he saw himself standing in Aziraphale’s place. It wasn’t, as he thought at first, a death sentence. Rather, it was a chance to protect his angel and keep him safe. It was giving him a chance at life, real life, without the threat of heaven always hanging over his head, watching his every move. And more overwhelming than even that was the fact that Aziraphale gave him the same gift in return . That Aziraphale didn’t so much as hesitate to save Crowley’s life. Crowley tried not to read too much into that... after all , it kept them both alive. It was in their interest to do it. But even still, if he thought about it for too long, his heart leapt. So he tried not to think about it.


	5. the climax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is going up a day late! After all my editing I couldn't find a satisfying way to end it, but I have finally found a way to wrap it that pleased me. 
> 
> Quick reminder that this chapter has passing references to sex, nothing explicit but it's mentioned in indirectly a few times.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It had been only a matter of weeks since the apocalypse was averted, and Aziraphale and Crowley had outwitted heaven and hell. They had been enjoying the last few weeks of being left to their own devices. Content as they were, they mostly continued in the way they had before, the only real difference being they spent more time together.

Aziraphale puttered around his shop, reshelving books and quietly bustling about. Crowley could tell by the slowed pace and the droop of his shoulders that he was exhausted. “Aziraphale, you’re too tired, you need a break.” 

"But the books! They won't reshelve themselves!" His feeble protests, endearing as they were, remained completely unconvincing.

"The books can wait, angel," Crowley said softly. He stood and planted himself in front of Aziraphale, grasped him by the shoulders, and steered him to the sofa. He miracled a cup of tea into the angel’s hands, and draped a tartan blanket over his lap. “Rest. The books aren’t going anywhere. You won’t do anyone any good by exhausting yourself to discorporation.” Crowley patted the pillow on the couch next to Aziraphale, beckoning him to lie down, and he begrudgingly complied. Crowley gazed out the window as Aziraphale fell asleep. Once he was satisfied and confident the angel was passed out, he stood and wandered to the stack of books. 

Crowley picked up the top few books and set about reshelving them in Aziraphale's preferred method. Said method was an ineffable system of his own devising and to his knowledge (up until this point) only known by him. 

When Aziraphale awoke a few hours later, the first thing to come into focus was the stack of books he had been dithering about before falling asleep. The pile was noticeably shorter. He could hear the quiet sound of Crowley trodding through the aisles, muttering to himself about where to put a particular volume. “Now did he like his dinner with Milton more than the brunch with that poet...oh for hell’s sake, what was his name? French bloke…I’ll need to come back to this one.” He swapped the book out with another in the stack in his hands, placed the others in a precarious pile on a nearby empty shelf, and carefully investigated the spine. “Oh fuck’s sake, what am I supposed to do with this? Old as sin, and I know he’s told me about this lunch but I just can’t remember…”

As the angel approached, he stopped just behind Crowley. His heart blossomed as if it were ballooning outward, expanding faster than he could fathom. His mostly-human body did not have the capacity to hold all the love he possessed for this fallen angel. He gave a small cough to alert Crowley that he was there. Crowley jumped and turned in one fluid motion. 

“Bloody hell angel! Why’d you have to sneak up on me like tha-” Crowley looked up from the book in his hands only to find that Aziraphale had somehow cornered him at the end of an aisle. Their bodies were close, much closer than they normally allowed themselves to be. There could be no pretending or confusing this for a polite, respectful distance of colleagues. The book in Crowley’s hand dropped to the floor, and he knew Aziraphale was truly preoccupied when he didn’t comment, didn’t move, didn’t so much as flinch, as a plume of dust from the carpet clouded over it and settled onto the cover. Crowley straightened up and gripped the shelf behind him, seeming to anchor himself to that fixed point, eyes widening, throat tightening. 

“Aziraphale?” His name a question, a caution, a reminder of the distance so carefully constructed and painstakingly maintained. The last futile resistance of an addict trying to remember why they quit their vices.

The angel, for his answer, was practically pinning him between the shelf and the wall, unmistakably close and showing no sign of pulling away. If Crowley wanted to break out of the corner he found himself in, he could have, easily. The angel always gave him an out. But he was not intimidating, not hesitant or afraid, only open and vulnerable. And here he was...waiting. 

Waiting for  _ Crowley _ .

Crowley visibly swallowed (in an unsuccessful attempt to clear his suddenly dry throat). Aziraphale, slow enough to give him an escape, reached up and placed his hands on either side of Crowley's face. His touch, featherlight as he brushed the sensitive skin there with the pads of his fingertips, sent shivers down Crowley’s spine, and his eyes closed involuntarily.  _ Is this really happening? Is this a dream? If it is..what a pleasant change.  _ His eyes cracked open again, and the angel leaned in. His lips brushed Crowley’s with all the gentleness of pure angelic devotion now finally unfettered.

Aziraphale leaned back, dazed, vision hazy. As he retreated into his own space again, Crowley involuntarily leaned forward with him, appearing just as stunned. The angel whispered "I'm so sorry, my dear, I ought to have asked first-" 

He found himself cut off by Crowley as the demon wrapped his hands in the fabric of his shirt and pulled him in. He kissed Aziraphale back with the full force of six thousand years worth of pent up agony rushing out like the breaking of a dam. The aching swell of everything said and unsaid between them built and spilled over, a tsunami pressing against the angel’s sternum, welling up past his throat, pooling behind his eyes. Aziraphale’s eyebrows flew to the highest heights they had ever known, and with delighted surprise, his eyes sunk closed into the kiss, hands finding a resting place wrapped around Crowley’s hips. 

Crowley tasted more decadent than any dessert, than any wine, than any  _ thing _ Aziraphale had ever sampled. It was more than he could have possibly imagined. It was both sweet and simultaneously ignited a fire deep inside him, a fire whose tinder had been laid and embers had been stoked for far too long. Now one single spark was enough to set all of that dry kindling within him ablaze. Aziraphale parted Crowley’s lips with his tongue, and Crowley’s knees gave out as he moaned. A delicious sound, one Aziraphale was determined to elicit from him again.

Aziraphale began to move from their tight corner, but his hands did not leave Crowley, and his lips didn’t either. He tugged gently, pulling Crowley back toward the bedroom in the flat above his shop. 

Their kisses grew increasingly frantic as they stumbled their way upstairs. They kissed as if they were running out of time, as if they were starving wanderers in the desert and the other were their only oasis. Aziraphale pressed kisses down the column of Crowley’s throat, onto his collarbone, in the hollow of his neck. Across his shoulders. His fingertips. Exploring every hollow and fill. Each kiss certain and hungry. This was a new hunger, more intense, voracious and unsatiated and  _ burning _ .

As they crossed the threshold into the room, Crowley’s wandering mouth stopped and his exploring hands gripped the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt. Aziraphale lifted his head, gazed into the golden eyes staring back at him with adoration, and asked without a hint of hesitation in his voice, “Crowley, would you please take off my shirt?” The demon acquiesced immediately, undoing the buttons with trembling hands and a sense of urgency, until it finally fell to the floor. Aziraphale grasped at Crowley’s shirt in his own fingers, “May I remove yours, too?” 

Crowley nodded and choked out a “Yes.” Aziraphale slid his hands under the demon’s t-shirt and bent down, pressing kisses to each newly exposed inch of skin as he raised the hem. Crowley stared down in disbelief and wonder at the angel kissing his way across his chest. There was no seduction, not a hint of temptation threaded in his words or deeds. This was all Aziraphale. Eventually he pulled the shirt all the way past Crowley’s reddened mouth and kissed him again, urgent and feverish. The continued with quiet murmurs passed back and forth, removing one article of clothing after another in turns. When Aziraphale’s hand was on the waistband of Crowley’s boxers, the demon covered it with his in such a way that he couldn’t remove them yet. The angel looked at him, question in his eyes. 

“I. I want nothing more than this, right now, with you angel. I want nothing more than anything you are willing to share with me. But...are you sure? I just, I don't want to go too fast for you, is all.”

Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him affectionately, eyes twinkling with tears and darkened with desire. "it's alright my darling, I'm ready now. Thank you for waiting for me. It has been entirely too long and I want nothing more than to share  _ everything _ with you." 

“Ngk.” The last thread of Crowley’s restraint snapped within him. With a hand wrapped around Aziraphale’s wrist, unable to bring himself to break contact with the angel, Crowley turned and led him to the bed, miracling away the last of his clothes as he went. Aziraphale followed wordlessly, fervently, and with none of the reluctance he showed only a few weeks prior, before the end of the world. 

Aziraphale laid a delicate kiss at the nape of the demon’s neck as he followed in his wake, another just over where his wings would emerge from his shoulder blades, yet another into the palm of his hand. They fell gently together into the bed, Aziraphale catching Crowley’s head in his cradled arms. This time, sharing the bed, there was no distance between them, and no hesitation to touch, to hold, to taste.

They shared a multitude of kisses, longing, sweet, and fierce. It would be many, many hours of gentle exploration and reclaiming of lost time together, drinking in each other in ways they never would have dared imagine but a day before. They wrapped around each other like vines of ivy, curling in tandem toward the sun, so intertwined it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

* * *

After, the angel and the demon fell asleep, entwined together. Exhausted by their endeavors and the overwhelm of finally giving in to what they yearned for for so long, it didn’t take long.

Even though he fell asleep curled in the angel’s arms, Crowley found himself thrown into one of his recurring nightmares: his Fall. But this time it was different. Instead of the perspective of flying, he was already standing on the ground, among the boiling fire and brimstone. 

Crowley realized: he was watching from a distance as the drama played out.  _ Bloody fantastic. An out of body experience. This should be fun.  _ As he stared, he didn’t see his long red tresses tumbling. Rather, all he saw were strikingly familiar blonde curls, framed by soft shimmering golden wings, falling. It dawned on him in a rush, and he felt as though he had been turned inside-out. 

Aziraphale. Aziraphale was falling…Why? The only thing...the only thing that was different...Crowley tempted him into sin. 

_ This is all my fault _ . 

He heard the familiar voice of Hastur, hissing and laughing in his ear. "You thought you could love? You're a demon, you're only capable of corrupting. Well done, Crowley. Perhaps this will be enough to get you back in Hell’s bad books." As his cackle faded, Crowley cried out. He raced to catch Aziraphale, but it was as if he were made of lead, impossibly heavy, and he would never get there in time. He watched Aziraphale’s plummet, helpless to change the outcome.

Crowley awoke right before Aziraphale hit the ground, with sticky trails of tears coating his face and continuing to stream forth uncontrollably. Crowley’s breath was trapped in his chest and his heart ached. He tamped down the sobs fighting their way out of his throat and rushed to inspect the sleeping angel’s face and his wings with frantic fingers, looking for any sign of change while trying not to wake him. But Aziraphale seemed undisturbed and peaceful, looking every bit the beautiful angel. 

When Aziraphale awoke a few hours later, he came downstairs to find Crowley fully dressed, including his sunglasses, and pacing in the back room of the shop. His hair looked as if he had been pulling it out in various directions, and the look on his face was feral and nothing less than furious. 

"Ah, there you are my dear. I must admit, I was just a bit worried when I woke and you weren't there." The angel’s voice was still groggy with sleep, and the squint of his gaze appeared disoriented. “Come back to bed,” he finished, holding out a hand toward Crowley.

“I- no- I can’t, I’ve- I need to go.” Crowley looked at the ground, at his hands, at the ceiling, the shelves on either side, everywhere, it seemed, except for directly at the angel. He avoided looking into his eyes for as long as possible, as though he feared what he would see there. The demon looked like he had been caught in a compromising position, and was searching for the fastest exit.

“Wha- Crowley, are you alright, darling?” At the gentle endearment, Crowley flinched as if Aziraphale had slapped him.

“Al- am- I- no I’m bloody well not alright! I- how can you- no! I’ll- no, I need to leave.” His voice climbed higher, more frantic and ever louder with each syllable. He finally looked Aziraphale in the eye, and his face was panicked. When he saw Aziraphale’s extended hand, his own hand twitched, as though he would cross the divide between them. But he suppressed the impulse and turned his back so the angel would not see the tears in his eyes.

“Are you coming back?” The only response to his broken inquiry was the door swinging shut behind Crowley with a resounding THUD.

Aziraphale, who only minutes before was more content than he had ever been in his remarkably long life, now felt more empty than he could have ever imagined. As if Crowley had hollowed him out, and then run out the door with Aziraphale’s still beating heart in his hands.

* * *

“SHIT. Shit shit shit shit SHIT SHIT.” In the Bentley, Crowley pounded the steering wheel with his fists and drove blindly, something suspiciously like tears blurring his vision of the country road ahead of him. He didn’t know where he was going, he only knew that he was moving, the blood in his body restless and desperate to get away, as far away as possible. 

Crowley had carried out some truly terrible temptations in his day, and had led many a great man to his own downfall. Usually it involved handing them the rope to tie their own noose and planting the seed of the idea in their mind. But Crowley never forced anyone into anything they weren’t already going to do- he just gave them more options. He also happened to be exceptionally skilled at finding the options which the target would find most attractive, and painting a beautiful picture of possibility. Granted, he always left out the long-term consequences of that possibility, and downplayed them if his target ever brought up the downsides. 

Crowley had never expected himself to give in to temptation so easily. Being on the receiving end of such was a jarring experience. He felt backwards, inside out, out of sorts, in every possible way disoriented and wrong-footed.

He had given in to everything he had wanted since Eden: allowing himself to accept the angel’s tender, teasing, gentle touches, meant only for him. Feeling the angel squirm and writhe beneath his ministrations. Reveling in the moans Crowley elicited from him. Six thousand years worth of desire and tension finally fulfilled. It was bliss, it was better than heaven, it was more than he ever dared allow himself to imagine. 

It was short lived.

In the morning, he was slammed with the full awareness of what he had done. He had tempted the angel to sin. And not just any sin, they had sex. He had tempted the angel with  _ lust _ . Crowley had never wanted to tempt Aziraphale, it hadn’t been his intention. But he supposed that his own desires and his demonic nature combined must have overcome him, and overridden any normal measures he would take to avoid seducing Aziraphale. Now the angel was sure to Fall. And it was all Crowley’s fault. 

Crowley recalled his Fall as if it had just happened- the pain, the burning, and worst of all the aching loneliness and isolation. He would do anything to keep his best friend from the same fate. But it was too late. He had already doomed him. He yelled at the only being who could hear him.

“Why? Why would you put him in  _ my _ path? What the hell did I ever do to deserve that kind of temptation? What did  _ he _ ever do to deserve me?! He’s an angel, one of your favored ones, and I am just a wretched, selfish bastard, and I can only corrupt. It was only a matter of GODDAMN time before he Fell, with me around. And  _ you _ .  _ Still. Did. It. _ ” On “you,” his voice cracked, and the rest of the sentence came out in a hiss. For the third time that day, he cried. 

“No response. As always. Typical. Not that I expected you to. But I would hope that maybe if one of your favorites was in danger, it would be more urgent. I guess he’s not one of your favorites anymore, is he?” A strangled sob wrenched out of his throat. “He’s my favorite, though, and I  _ LOVE _ him, and I’ll do anything, I’ll say whatever you want, if you just let him stay an angel. Do you hear that? I will never touch him again, if you just leave him!” He loved him, but it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be enough because the angel didn’t love him back. Not in the same way. 

He dreamed it, and his dreams always came true. Crowley felt desperate, he felt reckless, as if he would do anything to outrun these feelings. He itched to drive as far as he could. But where? Where could he go where these feelings wouldn’t follow? He was lost. His internal compass was still pointing, tried and true, to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale.

The realization dawned on him suddenly, in the midst of pressing the gas pedal as far as it could go. Aziraphale. Crowley had doomed him to Fall. And then abandoned him. He had no one there left to catch him, to comfort him, to hold him through the agonizing process. Perhaps the only thing worse than Falling was Falling alone.

Crowley jerked the Bentley into a sudden sprawling u-turn which defied the laws of physics. He wiped the tears from his eyes. And he resumed his urgent pace back in the direction of the bookshop, hoping with desperation that he wasn’t too late.

* * *

When Crowley had stormed out the door early that morning, Aziraphale had collapsed into the desk chair and pulled out his decanter. He filled a crystal glass and downed it in a matter of seconds. He refilled it and downed the second glass in the span of a few minutes. He poured the third glass and stared at it contemplatively, as if he could find the answers to his numerous questions within. The alcohol did nothing to alleviate the agonizing confusion and pain. In fact, it only muddled them together and mixed them into a dull ache which permeated his whole corporation. He didn’t understand. He thought back to the previous night. 

Finally, _ finally _ , he had caught up with Crowley. They  _ made love _ . It was everything Aziraphale hoped it would be, and more. The feeling of all of Crowley’s skin, his hips, his lips under Aziraphale’s hands. The taste of him. The cautious embraces and tenderness of Crowley’s kisses. The look on Crowley’s face every time Aziraphale opened his eyes. The sound of his gasps. The way he choked out “ _ Aziraphale”  _ in the throes of passion when the angel’s mouth found the perfect resting place. It was a whisper, a  _ prayer _ , filled with all the unspeakable affection between them, as if his name were a revelation to rival biblical prophecy. And Aziraphale knew, from the way the demon said his name, from the way he held him, that no one else could ever love him as completely, as thoroughly, or as devotedly as Crowley. And he knew he would never be able to love someone else as deeply, as overwhelmingly, as purely as he loved Crowley.

They had fallen asleep in bliss, tangled together, with all their walls torn down and nothing to separate them any longer. And Crowley had left first thing in the morning, without a goodbye. Frantic, as if he could barely look at him. As if he had what he needed and could no longer stand to be in the vicinity. So many times before, Aziraphale had watched Crowley walk away. He had never expected that it could feel any worse than hearing him shout as he left “ _ I won’t even think about you _ .” He was wrong. Aziraphale took a swig of his liquor.

Aziraphale was just finishing what he was fairly sure was his fourth glass, only a few hours after Crowley left so unceremoniously, when the demon came bursting through the door, sunglasses nowhere to be seen. His eyes were frantic as he scanned over every inch of the now very drunk angel sitting before him. Aziraphale jumped at his sudden appearance, and a haughty expression descended on his face.

Crowley crossed the room in only three strides and scrambled down onto his knees before the angel, taking both of Aziraphale’s hands in his own as he descended. Aziraphale allowed it, but didn’t grasp his hands, didn’t grip back with the reassuring firmness he could feel his body wanting to reciprocate against his better judgment. 

“Why, Crowley? Why did you do it?” Azirapahe demanded. “Did you intend to have your way with me and then just leave me alone?”

Crowley looked up at that, and his tear-stricken face bore all the hallmarks of a tormented soul. Aziraphale softened. “Aziraphale…” he began, with the same gentleness from the night previous, but more urgency and anguish in his tone. “Angel, please. Please forgive me,” he breathed. 

The angel hesitated. “If that wasn’t your intent, why did you leave without so much as an explanation? No goodbye? Crowley. That was cruel.” He heaved a sigh of relief. “But you’re back now, so I suppose it’s not too late to make it up to me.” A mischievous smile flirted with the edge of his mouth. But Crowley looked agonized at the thought.

“I am...I am so sorry angel. I promise I will never touch you again, if you can just...” As the words left his mouth, he looked down and realized that he was clutching Aziraphale's hands. Crowley dropped them immediately, face pained. His eyes were desperate, longing and  _ terrified _ . When the silence stretched out, he curled in on himself, staring at the floor, grabbing fistfuls of the carpet. 

“I’m too drunk for this,” Aziraphale muttered, crossing his hand over his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a moment to sober up with a grimace and shudder.

Crowley continued under his breath as he crouched “What have I done? It’s one of the deadliest! This is the last thing I wanted, I promised myself I would never...now you’ll pay the price for my weakness. I’m such a fool, so bloody selfish…I’m so sorry...” 

“Pay the price? Selfish? Crowley, you’re not making any sense. What...Deadliest. Deadliest sins?” He thought back over the last twelve hours and finally the pieces clicked together in his mind.

Aziraphale clambered down to the floor next to him and cupped his cheek with one palm, took his hand with the other with a reassuring squeeze. Crowley shied away from his touch, as though it hurt him to pull away but he had no choice. "Oh, my darling, you're mistaken. What we did last night, it’s  _ not _ a sin.” 

“Angel, I’m the expert in sin here, I’ve watched it happen, facilitated and overseen it so many times...I know it’s terrible, i can’t believe I’ve done this to you…” Crowley forged on, spluttering and incoherent. “It’s a sin, angel! I’m a demon, it’s all I’m capable of. Now I’ve led you...now you’ll be...and it’s all my fault, I’ll never…” He tried to tug his hand back, tears racing down his cheeks. “I swear to god I’ll never touch you again.” It clearly wounded him to say it, as though it burned him as it came out, but he succeeded in pulling his hand out of the angel’s and balled them into fists, penitent, ashamed. He bowed his head and closed his eyes and tears still leaked out, as Crowley tried (and failed) to pull himself together. Aziraphale stared.

“Crowley? Crowley. My dear. Look at me.” Crowley hesitated, finally halting the flow of tears. Secretly, he feared if he looked at the angel he would cry again, and be unable to stop. He shook his head. Aziraphale gently tried to lift his chin, and he resisted with a miserable sniffle. Aziraphale lowered himself down onto the floor, into Crowley’s line of sight, and cradled his face in both hands.

“I know, I see, you’re afraid. Are you afraid you tempted me to lust? Are you afraid I am going to Fall?” Crowley went still, as if afraid that acknowledging it out loud would bring the fate down upon them. When a moment passed and nothing happened, he nodded slowly. Aziraphale waited until the demon returned his gaze.

“Oh, Crowley...It can't be a sin if it's love." Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his hand. He pressed another to his cheek. Then he stared and waited for him to catch up. It was Crowley's turn to be stunned, eyes wide in shock, until he realized what Aziraphale meant. 

"Love?" 

"Yes, my dear. And none of that nonsense about you not being capable of love, because i know it isn’t true. I can feel it and have been able to all this time, it just took all of this-" he gestured vaguely between the two of them, “-to realize that wasn’t just how the world felt when I was around you. To realize that I wasn’t just projecting my own feelings onto you. To realize that I had more than a passing hope. And that I hadn’t missed my chance when you asked me to run away with you.”

Crowley’s face slowly morphed from a look of self-hatred and desperation to unmasked adoration. He melted like a candle's wax in the burning light of Aziraphale's love. His  _ love _ . 

The room filled with unadulterated love, washing over both of them like the sea, clearing away the debris of doubt and uncertainty and all the anxiety of the morning. Although the ability to sense love dulled in Crowley at the time he Fell, the feeling was undeniable and overwhelming now. He knew his own capital-l Love was obvious, and Aziraphale was reflecting all the same feelings- an all-encompassing haze, consuming them both. This love was bright and eternal. And now that he allowed himself to feel it, he could tell that it had been there all this time, a warm and pleasant buzzing in the back of his brain anytime he was around Aziraphale. It was reminiscent of the love and light of heaven, pure and unfiltered and perfect.

  
“Well. In that case. Can I take back what I said about never touching you again?” Crowley said with a laugh. “Because more than anything right now, I want to kiss you.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Of course, my dear. I don’t think She can hold you to promises made under duress.” Crowley grinned and closed the distance between them, one hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, the other tangled into his curls. The angel grabbed him by the waist as Crowley pressed his lips to the angel’s with more force than was truly necessary, as if to erase the dream and the events of the morning from his mind. He gently scratched along his scalp at the same time, lightly tugging his hair. Aziraphale moaned into his mouth. Crowley felt a shiver run through his body to all his extremities, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to make Aziraphale make that sound again. But he paused and pulled back so that their foreheads rested against each other. 

“But wait, Aziraphale, I dreamed it. And you already know, all my dreams come true.” He twirled one of the angel’s curls around his finger as he spoke.

“Well this is one dream that won’t come to fruition, my love.” Crowley blushed to the roots of his hair at the endearment. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

“You know, it’s funny, angel. I don’t feel afraid anymore. Looking back at this morning, it seems ridiculous.”

“I forgive you, my dear. You know what they say, ‘There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment.’ We won’t be punished for our love. Not by Her, certainly.”

Crowley could feel in his heart that seed of hope which was planted so long ago. He felt it break through the soil and burst to life above the ground, flowering fully and reaching toward the sun. The angel loved him. The angel loved  _ him.  _ If an angel could love him, with that pure and perfect and  _ holy  _ love, then perhaps there was still hope for him yet. 

He smiled at the realization, and pulled the angel up from the floor with him. He had ideas for how to spend the day- kissing him senseless, mostly. And he was eager to get started. “Wait, Aziraphale...if I asked you to run away with me again, would you?” 

  
The angel kissed him, tongue skating across Crowley’s lower lip. Aziraphale pulled back and smiled at the dazed look on his face. “Anywhere you want to go, my dear. I’ll go with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 John 4:18 KJV: "There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love."
> 
> Or the NIV translation: "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love."
> 
> There you have it! Thank you for reading, dear friends.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @mymetaphorwasdrawnfrombees or @ineffable-lesbians for my Good Omens sideblog!


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